


cry havoc

by The_Doom_Dahlia



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Dogs, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, References to Shakespeare, a reference to the apple of discord, artemis kills fascists, i'm dragging artemis into the american gods world, mentions of guns, reference to helen of troy, references to slavic religion/lore, screamin jay hawkins reference, set during 'Come to Jesus'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Doom_Dahlia/pseuds/The_Doom_Dahlia
Summary: something's beginning and artemis watches from afar as it starts





	cry havoc

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to a lot of regina spektor and owen pallett during this. i picture artemis as looking like regina, but that's my interpretation.

artemis walks in the streets around noontime that easter, smoke pouring from the cigarette that dangles from her lips. there’s a chill in the air despite it being april and she takes in the cold like an old friend visiting again, pulling her loose jacket closer around her. no hunting orange today, not for a few more months. the first turkey season was coming, but she never hunted turkey in april. it wasn’t a good time for it.

she calls her brother once a week. ares, who still wears his military fatigues once in awhile and lives off the grid in a cabin she’s only visited once or twice, speaks in short clipped sentences about ragnarok approaching and ‘needing to ration up, art’. his voice is hard as bronze and only softens when he talks about his children. she thought, at the beginning of this latest conflict, he’d be delighted by the prospect of neverending war. in all of her wisdom, she quickly figures out that it must be different when your sons are on the frontlines. he talks about complete government takeover and sometimes, when he’s sober and his voice is stable and she can hear the television in the background droning about the latest level of bloodshed, she can almost believe him.

she found employment in a little shop, nestled between a flag shop and a corner store that runs all night, that sells hunting equipment. the owner calls her his ‘prime expert’. there’s no weapon in the shop she hasn’t seen out on the hunt, none that she hasn’t seen performing its duty on some creature whose head alone would be harvested and stuck upon the wall at a club, the meat picked at for a while before it was tossed away. some of them, the used ones bought from shifty-eyed men in sweat drenched business suits and stained orange vests, were used for the most dangerous game, and she can see the screaming faces of the pitiful souls slaughtered when killing deer became too boring or the aggressor needed a new wife or insurance money. she does what she can to put them away and dreams of those she couldn’t avenge at night, awakening with the memory of wailing and the taste of copper blooming on her tongue.

her apartment is just big enough for her and a hunting dog she saved from a shelter. helena, named for her long dead mortal sister, is a sleek and proud poodle with gathering clouds in her eyes. sometimes, artemis feels her heart sink as she watches the once mighty creature now struggle to see in the brightest light. she knows the end is coming. there will be other dogs, but none like her and none with her name. there was only one helen, and there will be only one helena.

she hunts when she can, and practices with her weapons every weekend when she cannot. her only personal weapons are her beloved bow and arrows, changed many times due to age and technological advancement but still imbued with the same power, and a small handgun she had inscribed with the name atalanta. it felt fitting, especially when tucked away with blank rounds. a starter pistol for she who could run no longer.

her new hunts sometimes happen away from the forests, silent and quickly at shows and marches. she’s learned to recognize when numbers are not just numbers, when eagles and hawks no longer represent her father and her, and when a mere frog is no longer friendly. she knows who to spot and who to kill and how to do it. she once saw a tattoo on a punk boy at a concert: 'the only good fascist is a **dead** fascist'. she agrees.

she feels a strong tenderness towards eris, now a punk herself, whose children were legion and whose sorrows are many. no romantic love or sexual need ran between them, artemis undesiring of it and eris perfectly willing to take on suitors. but when eris’s failings hung heavy or artemis felt the loss of millions of creatures finally encroaching on her, they would sit together on eris’s couch and drink absinthe together to forget. they were not in love, and would never be in love, but eris was one of the few she trusted to hold onto her arrows while on the hunt amongst the darkening leaves of autumn. the golden apple was one offered in return, but refused and replaced with another glass of hard cider.

her followers are not many anymore, but they exist. she can sense them in the parades she goes to, purple and green and black and white mingling upon her cheeks. on the hunts when she passes them, her on horseback and them on atvs or some other nonsense. in libraries, hunched over books about animals. she lives on through them.

this life amongst mortals is something she’s grown used to. work and the hunt and her brother and eris keep her busy, and helena and her weakening sight keeps her tethered to humanity and animism. she does not wish for the days of the temples and offerings, or pine for her once mighty church.

she is contented.

others are not.

she looks up just as the green of the weak little trees planted along the sidewalks begin to fade and rot, and leaves fly past her in the sudden wind that blows. all around her, nature is dying away in a sudden rush of power. in her pocket, she hears first a military hymn and then screamin’ jay hawkins wailing from her cell phone eris and ares call to her, and she knows what they’re going to say.

turning on her heel and rushing back home, boots beating heavy tracks across the pavement, she can almost see ostara covered in flowers. her animals will suffer for this, and she knows that she must do what is best for them and for this life she’s made.

even if it means joining a war she never wanted.

she can hear the doomsday hound tugging at his chains, and words are brought forth from the depths of her mind, words from a play ares and her went to when he visited her last.

_**cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.** _

**Author's Note:**

> artemis's ringtones are battle hymn of the republic and 'whistlin past the graveyard' by screamin' jay hawkins
> 
> the quote at the end is from julius caesar.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed


End file.
